


Crimson Justice

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Friendship, Holocaust, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Graphic Violence, Non-graphic suicide, Other, Very Grim Subject Matter, Workplace Relationship, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Berlin, 1945. Grim Reapers from around the world gather to witness a collection.</p>
<p>Warning: mentions of the Holocaust, the camps and centres on the death of Adolf Hitler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson Justice

Berlin

April 30, 1945

One could be forgiven for assuming that the great structure was of similar age to the temples of Greece or the Coliseum of Rome. Originally a symbol of peace, the soaring gate was pockmarked and smoke-blackened. The rearing horses set on its capitol damaged beyond repair, scarred by years of war.

The sea of black-suited men gathered nearby felt little grief at the sight of such destruction. Most, in fact, would admit to a spurt of triumph, satisfaction that a monument of the hateful regime had been reduced to a crumbling wreck, that the arrogant Prussian eagle and Iron cross and goddess of Victory in her chariot looked down over the ruins of the city. But most paid little attention to the great gate that still towered over the rubble—all eyes were fixed on the scarlet-clad figure that lounged against one of the Doric columns.

“I suppose he has the right,” one muttered, “but I still think we should have drawn lots for it. This is the one soul we all want to collect.”

“Maybe so,” said another, “but _she_ deserves it above all others.”

Agents from Dispatches across Europe and even representatives from the American and Canadian branches murmured in agreement.

“I was with her . . . there,” said the Polish representative with a shudder. “She volunteered for that job. Thousands of souls would have been lost. She collected for months at a time without rest. And she fought off untold numbers of demons. The evil and misery brought them in the hundreds.”

The Russian rested his hand on the Pole’s shoulder for a moment. “I was there earlier this year. The suffering . . . the cruelty . . . ”

“It makes me ashamed,” one said quietly.

“Ludger, you mustn’t feel that way,” he answered. “You and Sascha have worked brilliantly throughout this. You bear no blame.”

He and his companion visibly relaxed and moved toward the gate. Thus far, none had dared approach the crimson reaper, but they could see she greeted them both with affection and made their way closer.

She looked gaunt and weary, her red coat was stained and torn, but, her eyes still gleamed with perverse humour, her shark-like smile was still intact as she exchanged handshakes and an occasional hug.

“Andrzej,” she whispered, holding him tightly for an instant, “where’s Wladek?”

“He didn’t make it,” the Pole replied, swallowing hard. "Demons. Just before the liberation.”

Grell swiped her hand angrily across her face. “Oh! I’ll never forgive William for hauling me out of there.”

“I had to drag you out by your hair,” said a voice behind her. “Honestly! You hadn’t taken leave in over a year.”

All eyes turned to the formidable figure of the London Dispatch Manager, who had coordinated the activities of the Grim Reapers throughout Europe for the past years. He, too, appeared thin and tired, but he was looking at Grell with something like admiration and his stern facade slipped as he gazed at the agents before him.

“More than a third of us have not survived to see this day,” he said quietly. “Every branch has sustained tragic losses. Later, we will gather to pay tribute to our lost agents.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and studied it gravely.

Nodding in agreement, none could mask their emotions and grew quiet until startled by the sudden opening of a portal. Nor could any hide their astonishment at the appearance of a silver-haired figure. A low-pitched murmur circulated through the group. He was the oldest reaper still living—a renegade forgiven for his past transgressions in light his tremendous deeds during the past few years.

“I have come to offer my services.”

“Not necessary,” stated the American emphatically. “Agent Sutcliff will be making the collection and if she does not care to . . . There are many here who will gladly do it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am speaking of tomorrow—the children. I will see to them, see that it is done quickly and mercifully.”

A sigh of relief could be heard from them all.

William nodded his head. “Thank you. That is a job that none of us relish.”

Grell clasped his hand for an instant.

“Then I am forgiven for wounding your face?” he asked, sweeping his hair back to peer at her.

She waved her hand impatiently at him “What’s a little cut _now_? And you know I’d forgive a great deal more when you look at me like that,” she smiled, running her finger down his front.

“Honestly Grell!” William snorted. “Only you could engage in flirtation at a time like this.” But he was smiling faintly and drew her away from the rest.

“You’re wearing your coat again and I’d only just become accustomed to seeing you in a regulation black suit with your hair tied back.”

“It didn’t seem appropriate, given the work. But today . . . ”

“Is cause for celebration?”

“No,” she said shortly, “but it is a symbol that this era of madness has come to an end.” She stared about at the rubble of the devastated city.

“To be replaced by yet another,” he sighed. “It will be fifty years before the people of this nation can gather here as one.”

“But they will,” she insisted. “It makes you wonder if there isn’t hope for the human race, after all.”

“After what you’ve seen, after what we’ve experienced, you truly believe that?”

“I have to,” she said simply. “I’ve seen the absolute worst of what they can do, but I have seen some of the best. Acts of great bravery and selflessness—on both sides.”

There were a few dazed individuals wandering the streets. “The Russians will be here soon,” he murmured. “Soon, it will all be over. Are you sure you don’t want the job when you return?”

“Heavens no!” she grinned. “I’d make a dreadful supervisor. And Ronnie deserves it. He was spectacular during the Blitz, I heard.”

“He was. He showed great courage and strength. So, what will you do next?”

“As soon as I’m done here, I’ll return to Saxony. They’re still dying in hundreds each day up at Belsen. It should improve soon; the British and Canadians arrived two weeks ago.” She fingered her torn and dirty cuffs, “And when I get home, I think I’ll have a new coat made.”

“Do,” William urged. “And see that it goes on your expenses. You’ve earned it.”

Grell consulted her watch. “It’s almost time.” They set out along Ebertstraße. She glanced behind her. “Oh dear! Are they all following us?”

“I’m afraid so. They have been informed you and I will be the only witnesses, but they gathered here today because they feel compelled to know it has happened.”

“I don’t _have_ to be the one, you know. Any of the others deserve it just as much.” She stopped abruptly and planted her hands on her hips to confront him. “I wish you wouldn’t all act as if it were some sort of honour. You’re all making me nervous.”

“Grell, you haven’t been nervous since the day we met,” he said, “but this collection will be a mark of distinction for you.”

“As in I’ll be famous rather than infamous,” she grumbled.

“As in you have done magnificently these past few years,” he stated. “Your achievements are unparalleled; you set aside all of your, er, eccentricities and willfulness to serve the Will of the Higher Up. You are responsible for the conservation of thousands of souls and your courage saved the lives of many agents. Your colleagues from branches around the world have recognized this and this is the highest tribute they can pay you—selecting you to take the soul of the creator of this madness.”

They gained entry to the bunker, leaving the others outside. Grell wrinkled her nose at the stale air. “Pity it has to be so quick,” she complained. “Are you sure I can’t play with him for a little while?” She bared her teeth in a ferocious grin and heard a familiar soft laugh.

A pair of red eyes gleamed in the darkness and she caught a whiff of a well-remembered scent.

“You!” she gasped.

He stepped forward, taking on the form she recognized. Placing his hand over his heart, he executed a perfect half-bow. “At your service, my dear Agent Sutcliff.”

“Michaelis!” William hissed. His Death Scythe appeared.

“I no longer answer to that name,” he said, “but since it is the one familiar to you . . . ”

Her Death Scythe rested against his throat. “What are you doing here, Bassy?” The endearment slipped out without thought.

“Rest easy, Grell,” he replied, pushing it away nonchalantly. “You too, Spears. I will not be interfering in your work today. You might say we have a similar purpose—for I, too, am serving the Will of The Master.”

“Your master?”

“Not the earl. That contract was terminated a number of years ago, as you know. I have served several others since. I am speaking of my True Master.” The air around him blurred for an instant. “The fate of this soul has already been determined. I will merely act as an escort.”

“See that’s all you do.” William glared at him.

“Hush! Both of you,” Grell commanded. “It’s time.”

They slipped into the study. William set to work on the woman slumped on the couch while Grell regarded the small, tired, defeated man next to her. She was shaking with rage. Images of the past years assailed her: the thousands dying of starvation, the bodies piled up like so much refuse, stripped of their humanity. She fingered her spectacle cord, recalling the great heaps of eyeglasses, the mountains of hair, shaved from their heads and the chambers where hundreds died at one time, screaming for mercy while she attempted to catch as many souls as she could in the choking clouds of gas.

A gunshot rang out. She howled in fury as she battled with the soul. Grell swung her Death Scythe again and again, glad that this was no peaceful death. Grimly rejoicing that no marks beyond the gunshot wound would be visible to human eyes, she sank her roaring saw into his entrails, watched him spasm and laughed wildly when the Cinematic Record finally yielded itself.

She could sense William watching it over her shoulder and something else—something darker, a stench like none she had ever known, the high-pitched screeching of millions, crying out in agony and a low, rumbling laugh that shook the room. Forcing herself to stay calm, she watched it and guided it into the book until the last of it had unfurled and vanished.

“I’ll stamp it outside,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from shrieking. “Let the others watch.”

William rested his hand on her shoulder until she stopped trembling and, without a backward glance at the figures on the couch, they left the bunker.

Grell strode out among them, her hair streaming wildly, her coat billowing as she held the Record high, produced the stamp and affixed the seal. A low hum of approval went up about her.

“Will you stay?” William asked. “The Russians will be here any moment. The Red Army will enter the Reichstag tonight.”

She shook her head. “No. After the memorial for the fallen agents, I must return to Bergen-Belsen. After what I just saw, it is even more necessary. Not one single soul should be lost because of him.”

They gathered again before the Brandenburg Gate. The rumble of artillery and tanks almost drowned out William’s words, but he spoke movingly of the fallen and each agent listed those lost from his Dispatch, many with tears running down their faces. They stood in silence for a moment and, one by one, each approached Grell to shake her hand.

The American wrung her hand heartily. “You should visit the United States, Agent Sutcliff. I’d be pleased to show you around New York.”

“I certainly will, if the rest of your Dispatch looks like you,” she grinned.

She embraced Sascha and Ludger. “Soon, we’ll find a nice spot and have drink together. I promise.”

“I’ll be returning to London tomorrow,” Undertaker said. “Come to the shop when you’re back and we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll make amends for wounding a lady in the face.”

But there were still months of conflict ahead of them, many thousands of souls to be collected and the agents sombrely departed to their tasks until only she and William remained.

“Fancy seeing Sebastian like that!” she marvelled. “I wondered where he had gone after Undertaker thwarted his contract with the brat.”

“The brat is almost seventy years old now. The Countess Elizabeth gave the manor over to the nation to use as a soldiers’ hospital.”

“I know,” she giggled. “I’ve seen him, covered with decorations for his services to the crown. I wonder if the king knows precisely what service he gave? I’d still like to take his soul when the time comes.”

“I think you’d find the latter part of his Record rather dull,” William chuckled. “Especially since the old king abolished the position of Watchdog. But Undertaker’s actions went a long way in redeeming himself in the eyes of the Dispatch.”

“I’ll say. Not too many can boast that they foiled a demonic contract.”

“And even fewer can boast that they have preserved as many souls as you,” he said. “I’m proud of you, Grell. And I’m honoured to have been at your side today.”

She flushed a deep pink. “Thank you, dear, but just as many would have been lost without your hard work, Mr B Average. Still, it’s a pity Sebastian had to disappear so quickly. I would have loved a little chat with him.”

“I think you might yet have that chance if he continues in his current mode of service.”

“You do? How?”

“Honestly Grell! Do you ever pay attention? Next year! The trials!”

“Heavens! You’re right,” she grinned, showing all her teeth. “Today was only the first. But I must be going.” She flung off her coat and shoved it into William’s arms. “Be a dear and take this back to the Dispatch for me, will you?” She squeezed his arm affectionately and vanished.

William smiled to himself. Grell had changed so much and so little. Still fierce and bold and unconventional, still proud and fearless and intensely loyal. He glanced down at the heap of scarlet fabric in his arms, saw the absurd, threadbare bow, the tattered hem and her inexpert attempts at mending it over the years. She loved that coat. No copy—no matter how close—could replace it and he vowed to have it repaired and restored as his gift to her.

Grell was right. This day was the first. The henchmen of the horror would face judgement next year and, when they did, when he and Grell and, most likely, Sebastian met next, she would be again the flaunting, unrepentant crimson reaper. When they kept their appointment to see justice meted out in Nuremberg.

**Author's Note:**

> The children, mentioned by Undertaker, were the six offspring of Joseph and Magda Goebbels, who were murdered by their parents in the bunker before they took their own lives.
> 
> The idea came about when I began to speculate on how the Grim Reapers would deal with the war. It is not my intention to use a genuine tragedy as a plot device. I have tried to treat these events as respectfully as possible, but, if anyone is truly offended by this, I will not hesitate to delete the work.


End file.
